


Casual Encounter

by disturbedbydesign



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disturbedbydesign/pseuds/disturbedbydesign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dethroned King of Trash Cinnabon manager Gene finds a "date" on Craigslist at 2 in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casual Encounter

It’s 2am and he’s awake again. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days, and he can only drink and jerk himself into unconsciousness so many times before it doesn’t work anymore. He’s starved for company—company that he has just ordered off Craigslist and which is set to arrive at any moment. Even though he knows she’s coming, he jumps a bit when the doorbell rings.

It could be anyone, after all. He knows that somewhere out there, someone is looking for him—at least, he hopes so. The alternative is too bleak, too final to even think about. He sets a near-empty glass of scotch on the table and heads to the door. The peephole reveals a wholesome-looking young woman, not the type he usually comes across.

He thinks she looks like a soccer mom, maybe a kindergarten teacher. Someone who should be sitting cross-legged and reading a book to a bunch of snot-nosed brats, not getting some pathetic loser off at two in the morning.

He doesn’t judge, though. How could he?

He opens the door and she smiles. It’s a fake smile, but he’ll take it, and she introduces herself with a name just as false. He pauses, not knowing what name to give to her. At this particular moment, standing in his doorway with his gut stretching the limits of his stained white t-shirt, he feels like Gene. He wants to feel like Saul, though. That’s the entire point of these little exercises in self-delusion. Saul could bag this girl without having to pay for it. Saul could sweet-talk her out of her panties in five minutes. Saul could have her on her knees under his desk, begging for it.

But he isn’t Saul anymore. He decides he wants to remember what it felt like to be Jimmy.

“James,” he says. “Come on in.”

She makes casual conversation while she sets up her massage table but he can’t muster up more than one- or two-word answers. He wonders briefly when he lost the gift of gab, but he knows the answer and there’s no point in dwelling on it. He tries to relax his body, knowing the only way to calm his mind is to lose himself in the touch of a beautiful stranger. It isn’t out of the kindness of her heart that she’s here, but he can pretend.

He is embarrassed of the way his body looks now—the bloated, sagging skin he wears as a disguise, the god awful mustache he’ll never get used to. When he was Saul, he would stand naked in front of the mirror after his morning shower, preening. He would admire himself, praise himself, pump himself up for the day ahead. When he’d first moved to Omaha, he couldn’t break the habit, and for a month or two he watched his body morph into Gene. It was quicker than he would have liked, that transformation. The day came when he couldn’t see his cock past his belly anymore, and that was the worst day of all.

“Like saying goodbye to an old friend,” he’d said aloud to no one.

Then he’d smashed the mirror just to feel alive.

She says she needs the money up front, which is to be expected, but she’s kind about it and a little hesitant. She seems almost embarrassed and he wonders how long she’s been doing what she’s about to do. She doesn’t seem nervous at all, though, so he chalks it up to pity. He is a weak man now, a broken man. She must know she has nothing to be afraid of.

He hands her the $100 in cash, thinking to himself that she could definitely be charging more than that and he would gladly pay it. She has something about her he can’t really pinpoint or explain, but it is beautiful, and it makes him feel safe—safe enough to take off his shirt with the lights on, safe enough to shed his boxers before he’s even hard.

She takes him by the hand and pulls him toward the table. Her hands are smooth and warm on his clammy skin.

“Make yourself comfortable, James.”

Her voice is not brassy or smoke-worn like so many of the others. It’s like music—melancholy music, but music all the same. She has bright eyes and a sad smile and he wishes he could kiss her. He knows that’s not for sale, though, and even if it was he wouldn’t buy it from her. Kisses should be given freely and honestly, that much he remembers.

He is face down on the table, head turned to the side, watching her disrobe. When she gets down to her bra and panties he stops her. It was a nice set: red and lacy but with a touch of class—just the type of thing he used to like, back when he had options. She smiles at him and says, “whatever you like.” He closes his eyes. He is ready to be touched.

“Tell me where you’re tense, James.”

“My back,” he says. “I’ve got knots for days.”

And he does, because the new job surprised him with its physicality. Standing all day sets his lower back on fire and makes him long for the days he spent in his leather throne with his legs kicked up on his desk. And then there’s the hunching, the kneading, the carrying, the pushing, the pulling, not to mention the stress of simply living this half-life he has now.

He carries most of the stress in three walnut-sized knots in his back. The rest of it lives in his ulcer and in the slow-creeping cirrhosis of his liver. She finds the first knot and works it hard, and he lets out a sound slightly feminine.

“Am I hurting you?” she asks.

“Yes,” he replies. “Keep going.”

It’s truly painful, what she’s doing, but she’s doing it correctly and he can feel some of the tension liquidize and flow away. After a generous application of some rose-scented oil, she slides her forearms slowly down his back. He feels the weight of her breasts on his neck, hears the slick sound her fingers make sliding across his ass. He focuses on her short, heavy breaths. She’s working hard to fix what she can of his worn-down, broken body. He would have loved her for it, if he could remember what that word means.

He tries not to think about how fleshy he must feel in her hands because when he does, all he sees is a pile of dough, waiting to be kneaded. Even through the thick scent of flowers he can still smell the cinnamon. Always that fucking cinnamon.

She grabs two handfuls of his ass and spreads his cheeks for a just a moment before letting go. His body stiffens and his breath hitches before he has a chance to tell her that he very much likes that and to please not stop.

“Don’t tense up now,” she says, “or I’ll have to start all over again.”

He smiles against the table. “Maybe give me a heads up next time you go poking around back there?”

“I couldn’t help myself,” she says. “You’ve got a cute butt, and I’m sort of in the butt business so I’d know.”

He laughs. He hasn’t laughed in five months. It feels better than coming.

“Do you want to tell me what to do, James? Or do you want me to tell you what I want to do?”

He thought about it for a minute. Usually it was he who did the telling, or at least Saul always did. Saul was commanding and demanding. He needed women to worship at the altar he built to himself. But he didn’t feel like talking anymore. He’d already talked enough for ten lifetimes.

“You’re the boss,” he says.

He finds himself genuinely curious about where she wants to take this because she has a different aura about her now. Not so much a schoolteacher as headmistress, but a kind one—one that is punishing you for your own good. He wanted to feel her tough love, however she wanted to give it.

“I’m going to take off the rest of my clothes now, James, and you’re going to watch me. Then you’re going to turn over onto your back. How does that sound?”

“Like a dream,” he says softly.

He watches as she ditches her bra and shimmies out of her thong. His eyes and mouth are wide open as he lays there, and he doesn’t care at all that he’s ogling her like a ten-year old seeing his first tit because to him she is just so beautiful. She’s not perfect, not by any means. She’s got a faded C-section scar and stretch marks and cellulite. Her left breast is larger than her right, and her nipples are different shades and sizes. All of it is perfect to him in this moment. He feels like he’s never seen a woman before, never touched one, even though Saul had lost count by the end.

He almost doesn’t want to do this. Almost. But before he knows it she’s up on the table, spreading his knees apart. He should feel horribly exposed but he doesn’t. Even his gut seems smaller to him as he watches her squirt oil in her hands and rub them together. His cock is hard now and he smiles, because at least there’s one thing they can’t take away from him.

“Well, well, well,” she says.

“Not what you were expecting?”

“I try to avoid expectations. That’s a nice dick, though, but I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve heard that.”

He laughs again and it feels like falling in love.

“Honestly,” he says, “it’s been a while.”

“What a shame.” She runs her greased hands up and down his thighs. “Well, we can’t let a good cock go to waste, now can we?”

“That would be irresponsible,” he says, “tragic, even,” and for the first time in a long time, he actually hears his own voice when he’s speaking.

Then she giggles, and the sound goes straight through him. It was a tinny little laugh, almost stupid coming out of a woman like her, but it was magic to him.

“I’m going to suck your cock now, James.”

“Can you-” He stops himself too late.

“Can I what?”

“It’s just…”

“Tell me,” she says, “anything you want.”

He sees that fear in her eyes now, like she’s scared of what he might ask, but it was nothing really—something that would mean nothing to her and everything to him.

“Can you call me Jimmy?”

She smiles her relief. “I’m gonna suck your cock now, Jimmy.”

And she does, and she does it well, almost too well because he’d paid for the full package and he could have come down her throat about a minute into it. He stops her with a little tap on the shoulder and she understands without him saying a word.

It is a strangely comfortable dynamic, this business of pleasure with her. He’d had a lot of women of the evening over the years, and so many of them tried to make things feel natural. But this woman feels effortless. It’s so odd that it feels normal, and it makes sense to him, because the new normal is just one big lie anyway.

She sees him staring at her breasts, hungry and licking his lips. “You like my tits, Jimmy?”

He nods because he very much does. They have been resting between his thighs for a while now, heavy and warm, and he’s been thinking about touching them and kissing them, but he doesn’t know her rules when it comes to that particular form of stimulation.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, and it feels oddly liberating to him to ask for it. Saul was used to taking what he wanted, and by the end it bored him.

“Anywhere you like,” she says. “Well, almost anywhere.”

“Back door not open for business?”

“Consider it the VIP Room.”

He knows he could pay for it if he wanted it but he doesn’t. Not tonight. Tonight, he wants a much simpler pleasure, and he gets it when she straddles him and hovers over him, giving him full access to her chest. He takes the opportunity to kiss every inch of her tits, slowly because she never rushes him. It’s almost as if she likes it, too, and this makes him bolder. He kisses across her collarbones and up her neck but he stops behind her ear. Not the face, never the lips. He knows the rules, and he is willing to play by them.

He wants to take his glasses off but he can’t see without them. And he needs to see her, because he’s decided he wants to make her come for real, and he needs to watch it happen. He knows a fake one from a real one, always has. The only difference now is that, for some ungodly reason, he gives a shit.

He moves his hand down her side, very slowly, tentatively, because he is afraid she might stop him. She doesn’t, though, and when his fingers find her pussy slick he’s surprised.

It’s just the oil, he thinks. Has to be.

She lets out a little sigh when he touches her and he takes it as a sign that yes, that is okay, and yes, please continue. He dips the tip of one finger inside her and she’s warm and inviting and she drops her pelvis to take more of it. She’s upright now, with her hands on his chest, toying with the hairs around his nipples as she fucks his fingers—two of them now—and she’s getting wet for real and he cannot believe this is actually happening. He feels like he should say something but he likes the sound his fingers make fucking her and the low, breathy sounds she makes. She’s a quiet one—not one of these porn star wannabes squawking and thrashing around. It’s a nice change, to be able to pretend this isn’t work for her and actually believe it.

He thumbs her clit gently and she moans, taking his free hand and moving it around to her ample bottom. He always was an ass man, and hers is a thing of beauty. He thinks about fucking her from behind, wonders how she’d feel about that. He has the sudden urge to eat every inch of her ass but it’s not on the menu tonight.

She rolls her hips and asks, “Do I feel good, Jimmy?”

“You have no idea,” he says, because she couldn’t possibly know the depth of his loneliness.

He knows she specializes in lonely men, but he’s on a whole different level than the rest. His loneliness is a cancer, eating away at everything he used to be. Allowing him to touch her in this way is a kindness he knows he can never repay.

Before he can stop himself he asks if he can taste her. She freezes up and looks down at him with the strangest expression.

He starts to stutter. “I… I’m… sorry, I just…”

“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I’ve just never had a client ask me that before.”

_Client._ The word hurts him in a lot of different ways. He starts to tell her to forget it but she reaches around to massage his balls and he can’t get the words out because his dick is painfully hard and poking at the cleft of her ass.

“I could ride that mustache all night,” she says.

For the life of him he can’t figure out if it’s genuine but it doesn’t matter because now she’s straddling his face. She smells like Dial soap and a woman’s musk and for the first time in months, he doesn’t smell cinnamon.

He was good at this once, but in this new life confidence is an abstract concept that doesn’t apply to him. Still, he gives it his best shot, and she helps him along—positioning herself just right, telling him what to do and what she likes. He puts his hands on her hips with a light touch, letting her move herself wherever she wants to be, and she leans back and strokes his cock as he licks her and kisses her the only place he’s allowed. It briefly occurs to him that this act is very intimate, more intimate than a kiss on her other lips would be. He can’t entertain the idea she might let him kiss her there, too.

Suddenly her hands are in his hair, and he knows it will be even thinner when she’s done with it because she’s tugging at it and whispering his name—his actual name—over and over again like a prayer. He thinks this has to be fake, but it doesn’t sound fake and it doesn’t feel fake and it doesn’t look fake as he strains his eyes up to see her face. Her mouth is hanging open now, no sound, and she twitches a bit before she falls gently backward and laughs.

“Well, that was something new,” she says.

He thinks she’s lying. She has to be lying. But her face has a bit of a glow to it and she looks as content as can be. He has to ask.

“Did you…”

He notices the thin smile lines that frame her mouth as she grins at him and nods. She has a lovely, honest face. He has no idea what she’s doing here.

She says, “I want you to fuck me now, Jimmy,” and she hops down off the table to grab a condom.

She puts the rubber on him with her mouth and he knows this won’t last long. It can’t possibly because he hasn’t been inside a woman in ages and she becomes more beautiful to him with every movement she makes. She’s back up on the table now, lowering herself on to him. When he slides inside her and she starts to move, he has to stop her.

“Slower,” he begs. “I don’t want to-”

“I got you, baby,” she says, and she bends over his body and rests her head on his chest, letting him move when he wants and how he wants to make sure he gets his money’s worth. He already has, though, and then some.

He barely moves at first, just short little strokes. He closes his eyes and forces his mind to replay a boring shift at work—cleaning the counter, taking inventory, mopping the floor—anything to take his mind off of the warm, wet, wonderful place he’s found. But her hair smells like strawberries and her breath is hot on his skin and he knows he’s just about done. He thinks for a moment that changing positions might help but he almost comes just thinking about the way her ass might jiggle if he took her from behind.

“Fuck me,” he says. “Hard.”

She sits up and rides him like he’s a thoroughbred and not a lame old gelding on his way to the glue factory. He can feel the heat start to coil in his belly and he grabs her hips, fucking up into her so hard he thinks he might throw his back out. It would be worth it, though, just for the way her tits are bouncing and the sound of her voice saying _fuck me jimmy_ over and over again, softly but urgently.

Then it’s time. He sits up and wraps his arms around her, his body seizing as he comes with a few short grunts and a whimper. He rests his forehead against her breastbone and she strokes his sweat-dampened hair.

_Don’t cry goddammit. Do not fucking cry._

And he doesn’t, until she touches his chin and lifts his face to hers and plants a single, chaste kiss on his lips.


End file.
